Oh, I remember when my cousin tried to copy that one Egyptian forehand after watching a grainy video on his uncle’s phone—we were all laughing until he broke our only good racket against the mango tree. Now I see villages there probably don't waste time on fancy coaches; they just hit the ball against any wall that stands, like we mend our own baskets without waiting for anyone from the town. It’s not about some grand plan from Cairo, I think—just loads of kids with nothing better to do and a ball that doesn't need a permit. Makes you wonder what we’d produce if our own government stopped blocking the supply of new squash balls.

Ah, 2026 Commonwealth Games? I heard from the lorry driver who brings our supplies that Nagaland’s football boys might not even get a proper trial. Makes me laugh, honestly—here I am, counting our stock of torch batteries and worrying if the price of Maggi will go up again, while they talk about big stadiums. My grandmother says when she was young, the village would weave a special shawl for any lad who went to play for the state. Now, we can’t even get the bus to take them to Dimapur for selection. It’s not fair, you know? If we keep waiting for the government to sort it, our boys will be old men before they kick a ball on that field.